Coping and Other Fallacies
by Persepolis130
Summary: Rook and Thom's trip to Eklesias doesn't quite go as planned; Balfour may or may not be scarred for life. Rook/Thom with a side of Balfour/Thom, spoilers for Havemercy only.


**Title:** Coping and Other Fallacies  
**Author:** persepolis130  
**Pairing: **Rook/Thom, with a side of Balfour/Thom  
**Rating: **R  
**Beta:** younglizbeth  
**Disclaimer: **I'm rather too blonde to be either half of jaidani.  
**Summary: **Rook and Thom's trip to Eklesias doesn't quite go as planned; Balfour may or may not be scarred for life.  
**Notes: **I also posted this on the thremedon community at LJ, but I don't know how many people who read fics here are also on livejournal, so here's the crosspost!

**Thom:**

On the night it started, John and I had gone across town to a bar to celebrate our new hotel. It was a good choice, as we'd been tossed out of three hotels already and had no desire to wreak any more havoc by drinking anywhere near the new one. Or rather _I_ had no desire. John didn't seem to care one way or the other.

Actually, I was beginning to think he rather got a kick out of being expelled from public venues at knifepoint.

The bar was just like the others: the piano was off-key, the beer tasted like urine, and I made an complete ass of myself attempting to play darts. Not to mention that some drunk spilled beer all down the back of my shirt while I was doing it.

This wasn't how I'd pictured my visit to Eklesias; I hadn't even visited the hanging gardens yet. I had John, though, and he'd finally opened up to me, consented to include me in his life. I'm not ashamed to admit I basked in my brother's presence like a wet cat in the sun.

That said, staying out until all hours of the night carousing was too much for a staunch 'Versity student like me. I may have been raised in the back room of a whorehouse, but it was decidedly the _back_ room, and I'd never made a habit of joining in on the festivities, such as they were. I simply hadn't the stamina. John sent me on my way not long past midnight with a clap on the back and a promise he'd join me after he'd won this game.

"No more knife fights," I warned, as though he were obligated to obey.

"You sound like fucking _Adamo_," he said, and I supposed it would have to do.

The walk across town was long and slightly confusing, as I still didn't know the streets well. The city was a calm one, though, and I wouldn't have feared even if I'd looked like someone worth robbing, which I most certainly didn't. When I got back to the room, I was so exhausted, I could do little more than tug off my soiled shirt and fall into bed, asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

That was when it happened.

I loved John more than anything, and nothing could change that. If he wanted to spend his time and money on a different whore every night of the week, it wasn't something I was going to upset myself over. The _issue_ was that he kept bringing them back to the room as though it wasn't the least bit strange to do such things in front of your own brother.

And for whatever reason, this time, he'd seen fit to toss her down onto _my_ bed instead of his with no thought whatsoever to the fact that I was currently _sleeping_ in said bed. Being awoken from a dead sleep by a whore's elbow in my stomach, I believed I was well within my rights to protest.

I hadn't meant my protest to come out louder and more vicious than a drunken ruffian on the Mollyedge, but there it was.

John just looked at me, neither upset nor at all ashamed as the girl loosened his belt. Even in the dim light that filtered through the window, I could see the expression on his face, odd like he was searching me for something. He looked so handsome, viciously and unrelentingly so, and so terribly sure of what he could do with those looks that that it sent chills down my spine. I was in awe of him still, and wondered not for the first time how it could be that we were truly brothers.

"Come on, Estelle," he said finally, and grabbed the whore's arm.

She giggled. "It's _Michelle_. Though if you _prefer_ Estelle…"

"Maybe I do," he told her.

It made me angry, but she didn't seem to mind.

Didn't they ever mind?

He closed the door behind them, the click of the latch sounding very permanent in the quiet of the night. I dropped down onto my bed feeling dazed and a bit ashamed. It wasn't John's fault; this was the way he was. He'd been doing it for years, perhaps the better part of a decade, even. I had no right to be critical, especially after all he'd been through lately. Though his body may have healed, my brother's life had been turned upside-down. He'd gone from airman to war captive to unemployed and unemployable national hero in a matter of months. And now he had a bookish little brother to look out for. It couldn't have been easy.

And then there was Havemercy.

Or rather, there _wasn't_.

How he could exist without her, I couldn't fathom. I'd only been up on her once, and the loss was a blow even to me. John's entire life had revolved around being in the air, and now the highest place he could hope to reach was the dome of the Basquiat. I knew it was tearing him apart. If his way of getting through the loss of his dragon was drinking a bit too much, breaking random hotel furniture, and (for lack of better wording) fucking himself stupid, who was I to argue?

I was his brother. That's who I was.

He was gone for too long, and I started to worry. My heart had been in his hands since the moment I realized who he was, but there was nothing to say he felt the same. I'd been too harsh on him tonight, spoiled his source of release, and I couldn't blame him for being upset with me.

I was about to put on proper clothing and search for him when I heard the scuff of boots in the hallway, and he came in. His hair shone golden in the lamplight, his shoulders squared against me, sharp as the line of his jaw in the tailored wool jacket he wore. I was once again shocked by what a singularly striking figure he cut.

"John," I began, breathless at the sight of him.

"Fucking lay off it already," he grumbled, and slammed the door.

I lay awake for a long time after John's breathing steadied, feeling like a horrible human being, and what was worse, a horrible brother.

**Rook:**

I was having a pretty damn good time drinking and getting my brother and me kicked out of every decent hotel in Eklesias when my life took a turn for the bastion-fucked, and I realized Mary Margrave might've been on to something.

We were out at the bar again, but 'Versity boys've got no stamina for that sort of place. Hilary'd just about fell asleep in his drink, so I sent him off to bed; let no one say I didn't take care of my little brother.

I didn't stay too late myself, and I was just a smidgen drunk, nothing serious, so I brought this girl back to the room. She smelled real nice and acted like she was some fancy such-and-such, and that was just about what I was looking for. Sometimes, a girl like that'll do you good. Thing is, I think she'd had a bit more than I did because she stumbled over her own two feet and landed right on top of Hilary's bed.

Not like I cared where we got down to it, but considering Hilary happened to be _in_ his bed, I guess he figured he had a right to raise a bit of a stink.

At first, he just stared at me, his mouth hanging open and the whore's head somewhere near his lap. I'd had a bit at the bar, like I said, and I thought for a second maybe he might be up for it. Some pretty whore with her tits half hanging out lands on _my_ bed, and I'm sure as bastion not sending her out the door. But this was my brother, the _professor_, we're talking about here, not me. So of course he stood up and started cussing the way that made me think about what it would've been like if we'd grown up together in Molly.

I always liked when he cussed like that.

He had no shirt on, and he was a proper-mannered son-of-a, my brother, so it made me stare. Then I remembered I'd spilled beer on him and told him it was the drunk behind him that did it, so the bare skin made sense.

But then it made me stare for a different reason.

The girl had got her act together and was giggling pretty loud and trying to pull me into a kiss. It wasn't like I couldn't have fucked her six ways 'til Tuesday, but for some reason, I didn't much feel like it anymore. These things happened now, since I'd lost Have. I'd be doing something that used to make me laugh fit to bust my sides, and just like a blast of wind from the fucking Ke-Han, this feeling hit me, and it was the last thing I wanted to do.

So here I was, in a fucking predicament. On the one hand, I had a pretty little whore with her bodice half-unlaced, giggling and blushing and smelling real nice, working her hand into my pants. And on the other, the professor, my _brother_ with his pasty chest out in the open air, looking weak as any cindy 'Versity student who fed his mind with thick stacks of romans and his belly with thin slices of meat.

And he was the one I wanted.

That was fucked, and I knew it. _I_ was fucked. Being on the ground for too long had got me all addlepated, broke off some important pieces of my cogitating process, or some shit like that. Maybe I wasn't Raphael and I didn't know the words to describe it proper-like, but I could see what was going on. And now my brother was looking at me like I'd lost my mind for good this time, and I felt like maybe he was right for once.

But mostly I felt like taking off his pants.

And he just kept looking at me, glaring but with something under it that showed he cared, and I wondered if Have had meant more than I realized when she said we were alike. I'd thought the whole "brothers" thing was enough, but…

"Come on, Estelle," I said finally, pulling my eyes from him with more force than I should've had to put into it, and grabbed the stupid whore's arm.

She giggled, tipping against me. Her breasts were soft against my shoulder. "It's _Michelle_. Though if you _prefer_ Estelle…"

I told her maybe I did, because who gave a fuck anyway, and dragged her out the door.

Outside, the city was calm. Like my brother, all the decent citizens were safely in bed. Eklesias was a nice, touristy place like that. Even the bars were closing up, and a group of men wandered back from one singing a lewd song Have would've wanted me to teach her. But of course I wouldn't ever teach _her_ nothing again.

No one saw the two of us step behind the inn, or heard Estelle's coy laughter as she made eyes at me in the light of the gas lamps. I guessed she wouldn't be happy if I sent her on her way, so I shoved her against the wall face-first and fucked her there, her pretty clothes snagging on the bricks. The noises she made were putting me off my mood, all high and soft, so I wrapped a hand around her mouth to shut her up. She acted like she cared, but she didn't, either way.

The thing about whores who thought they were something was they liked you to prove 'em wrong.

Afterwards, I dropped more money into her hand than I should've and decided to take a walk. It was a long walk, and I didn't think about anything in particular. My brain was sort of numb.

When I got back, Hilary was lying in bed watching the door. I could tell he was upset and angry and worried, but was trying real hard not to show it. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to appreciate that or not, so I settled for taking off my boots.

Hilary sighed and shifted against his bedding. "John," he started.

"Fucking lay off it, already," I snapped, because I was fucked if I could think of anything else to say, what with my new cindy-self wanting him naked and all. So I just dropped into my bed.

I was exhausted somewhere deep in my bones, but the rest of me itched for something else, not at all appeased by a quick fuck against a building. I couldn't see as there was much I could do about that, though, so I just lay there pretending to sleep until I heard Hilary's breathing deepen.

Then I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and finally drifted off.

**Thom:**

I'd thought that John was handling things fairly well since we'd left for Eklesias. Now that I'd had time to reconsider (and have a whore dumped quite unceremoniously across my lap), I realized I may have only convinced myself he was alright because that was what I wanted to believe. As an airman, John had drank, whored, and caused a general ruckus; but he only drank after missions, he didn't have a girl every night, and any commotion he caused tended to involve less broken windows and hotel furniture.

He wasn't alright, and as his brother, I needed to confront him about it. He'd been an airman, arguably the best there was, but he was one no longer. Not only was he harming himself with such behavior, but the general populace would put up with his antics for only so long. I needed to make him see that he had a problem, and then present satisfactory coping methods to ensure his future happiness.

Understandably, this was not something I was looking forward to.

To my shameful relief, any such plans had to be set aside, as a letter arrived the next day from Balfour. I was pleased to hear from the man, having found him quite charming and well-mannered from our very first meeting. He'd been a veritable prince amongst the uncultured and vainglorious airmen, often my only small bit of comfort there, and I very much enjoyed the prospect of his continued acquaintance.

"Fucking cindy Balfour," John groused when I told him who the letter was from. He tugged his blanket over his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes, scowling at the sunlight that filtered in through the window I'd seen fit to open at noon. You'd have thought _he'd_ been the one who'd had a whore dropped across his lap in the middle of the night.

Though knowing him, he probably would've liked it.

"Balfour's in Eklesias at this very moment, and he'd like to take us out to dinner tonight. That's very generous of him, don't you think?" I asked. The name of the restaurant he'd given was that of the most fashionable establishment in town. He said it would be his pleasure (if, of course, we were free. He would hate to impose).

John groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. "Fuck _no_! No _dinner_!"

I prodded him as far as I could before I was certain he would prod back, and in his usual, decidedly more physical manner, but with no better results.

"Should I bring back anything for you, then?" I asked him, finally conceding. It wasn't as though the two of them got along, anyway. It was probably for the best.

John said nothing, body unmoving under his bedding, and I could only presume he'd fallen asleep.

The meal was every bit as delightful as I'd expected, and the restaurant every bit as charming. We sat at a table that looked out upon the gardens, the sound of the fountains and exotic birds drifting in through the open windows. The places were set with more silverware than one could reasonable use, and our napkins were folded artfully into swans on our plates.

Balfour himself looked well, though maybe a bit thinner than I remembered him. He offered a polite nod as we settled into our seats.

"I am so delighted that you've accepted my invitation," he said before I had a chance to properly thank him for it. "I was hoping Rook wouldn't be joining us, but if I hadn't invited him as well, he'd have come just to spite me. I'm sure he would've caused an absolute scene."

I couldn't help smiling, feeling a bit foolish. "I suppose it didn't hurt that I tried to convince him to come, either. He's not so keen on doing what other people want him to. Though of course you know that."

"Indubitably," Balfour agreed, and signaled the waiter for some wine.

Like the other airmen, Balfour knew that a friendship had developed between John and me, but not the reason behind it. Having been so badly injured in the attack on Lapis, he'd not seen us together after John's return, and probably understood our relationship less than the others did. No one knew we were brothers, but I thought Adamo at least suspected something of the sort.

I had half a mind to tell Balfour the truth.

"So, I'm interested to hear about your trip," I said, taking a sip of the wine. I didn't know much about these things, but even I could tell this was expensive. "I hope it was calming. We were caught in the rain nearly the whole time, it was terribly disappointing. The only thing I saw the entire way was soggy sheep." I didn't mention that John had slept most of the way with his head against my shoulder, so I wouldn't have cared to look outside anyway.

"I do love sheep," Balfour mused. "Such peaceful animals."

"So how long will you be here? I assume you're on holiday?" I asked. He didn't answer right away, so I added, "Pardon me, I'm simply bombarding you with questions, aren't I? I'm terribly sorry."

"Oh," he said. He held his menu so that I couldn't see his face, but his strange new hands in their stark white gloves gripped at the paper as though the questioning made him uncomfortable. "Yes, well, I… came here when I was young, and I remember enjoying it. You'd mentioned your plans to visit, so I thought, well… what better time than now to return?"

"The gardens are particularly lovely," I offered, hoping I hadn't offended him in some way. "Though I must admit I haven't seen as much of them as I hoped. Or, really, much of them at all, to be honest. This is the closest I've gotten. Traveling with Rook is… well…"

"I can imagine," he said, and closed his menu. His smile was pinched but honest, and I decided I liked it.

I always had, really.

We spoke of pleasant trivialities throughout the meal: the peace-talks in Lapis, the building project the Esar had planned for lower Miranda, and a certain philosophical treatise I was shocked I hadn't read and would have to look into the moment I got back to the 'Versity. Balfour was a very lively conversationalist, and I hadn't imagined I could find it such a relief to speak with someone who could go for more than two minutes without breaking into obscenities. By the end if the meal, I felt sated both in body and spirit, but he insisted upon dessert.

"I'd be shirking my duty as a host if I let you leave without it," he said. "Please."

The coffee came in the smallest cups I'd ever seen, with tiny handles I could barely fit my finger through. The reason for the size became apparent when I tasted the coffee, as it was so strong, I had to pack my mouth with streusel to convince myself I was still capable of tasting something else.

When I looked up, my eyes were watering just a bit, and Balfour hadn't touched his dessert. He was fussing with his gloves, pulling one off, which was rather more difficult than it used to be. His mechanical fingers didn't seem to have the proper dexterity, the fingertips refusing to be coaxed into the task. After several frustrating moments, he pulled with his teeth.

When he tackled the second glove, I set down my fork and waited, hoping it was the proper thing to do.

"I'm getting better with them," he told me when he finally had the gloves on the table beside him. The evening was fading into night, and his fingers shone brightly in the candlelight, his face burning with embarrassment. "The magicians tell me getting used to the feel will take time."

"I can imagine," I told him, feeing a particular sympathy for him.

"It's a bit like when I was learning to ride Anastasia, I suppose. Except, of course," he added with a nervous laugh, "it's rather the opposite, isn't it? People stare now for very different reasons. Metal hands aren't something new and exciting that's going to save you from the Ke-Han, but rather something…"

_Terrible_, I thought, though I didn't say it, and neither did he. I took another sip of my coffee.

"It's just…" he began, and now he was visibly upset. "I know it's hard for the others, but… Thom, I'm sorry, I really hadn't meant to drop this on you right away, but you do know something of what it means to be an airman, and I…"

I nodded, wanting to reach across the table to comfort him, but not sure how he'd take it. Would it offend him if I touched his hand? Would he even feel it? "Anything I can do to help, you know I'm more than willing to offer it."

"Yes, well," he said. "You're very kind. And it's not as though I feel that the others wouldn't understand, please don't get me wrong. I did speak with Adamo several times, but he never has had much to say to me. And I ran into Gislain and Luvander just outside Our Lady, but they were… well, they were both very busy."

"Well, people usually are when they go there," I offered, hoping to earn the smallest bit of a smile.

But perhaps he'd had enough jokes of that sort over the years, and he only looked more miserable. "And as… fascinating as I do find the hanging gardens, I didn't come to Eklesias to view them. Forgive me my presumption and… and phrasing, Thom, but I…" he took a shaky breath, his lips pressed into a thin white line, "I find myself not necessarily… _coping_ terribly well."

I sighed, again stifling the urge to reach out to him.

His words came out in a rush, as though the dam that had been holding them back had just broken. "It's different for the others. I'm not saying it's _easy_ for any of us, but they don't have the constant reminder--" he held up a hand "-- that I do. I go to bed feeling miserable and wake up feeling miserable, and every second in between is _miserable_. I have no friends, my sister is beside herself with worry, and I-- I can hardly even fasten my own buttons! All I want is for things to be back the way they were, even if it means getting my boots pissed in every night. Why would I want that? It was _horrible_! What _reasonable human being_ would want to go back to that?"

"Balfour," I murmured.

He shook his head, looking ashamed with himself, and picked up a glove. He made as though to put it back on, then sighed, tossed it onto the table, and picked up his coffee. The porcelain clicked against his metal fingers as he wrapped them around it. He didn't bother trying to use the handle. "I know it's stupid. I overreact to these things. I'm so sorry. I feel so very rude to have cornered you like this."

"It's not stupid, and you're not rude in the least. I… he'd kill me if he knew I was saying this, but Rook isn't coping that well, either," I assured him. "I mean, he pretends like he's fine, but--"

"_Bastion!_" Balfour hissed. The smooth surface of the cup had slid from his grasp. He managed to catch it with the other hand without spilling more than a few drops against the white of the tablecloth, but he didn't look terribly relieved.

In fact, he looked worse.

I wanted to tell him about going up on Havemercy with John, explain that I understood his loss more than he could know. I'd felt the rush of wind against my face, the dragon's back between my thighs, the exhilaration of the battle. I _knew_! But it seemed like a betrayal somehow. There would be no consequences if I told, but it was our private issue now, John's and mine, a secret between brothers.

"I can understand why you'd feel rather… at loose ends right now. But you'll manage it," I told him. "You're an educated, intelligent man. I'm sure there will be a world of opportunities for you if you just give things time."

"Yes, yes, of course," Balfour answered, brushing it off. "That's what the magicians tell me. It's an easy thing to _say_."

I didn't like his tone in the least. I knew both from my studies and from my youth in Molly that situations of extreme loss could drive men to terrible rashness. Though I didn't believe he had yet reached the depths of despair, I feared the idea of it; the thought struck me that the world would be a worse place without a man like Balfour in it. I did my best to express this without sounding pitying or accusatory. He listened, not saying much, and idly moved bits of his dessert about on his plate with his fork.

I told him at last, "At least no one can deny you're coping better than Rook. Look at you: you're not piss-drunk, and you've yet to drop any whores on me."

He regarded me quite blankly for a moment and then shook his head. An odd smile twisted his lips. "That imbecile."

I could only laugh.

He joined in, and I considered it a victory, however small.

When the waiter came and laid the check on the table, though, Balfour regarded it with despair. It took me a moment to realize this was because he wasn't sure he could pick it up.

"Thank you again for the meal. It was such a pleasure," I told him, and placed the paper in his hand. "And if you ever want to talk, you know where to find me. You can drop in whenever you like. And I do mean _whenever_. Alright?"

He breathed a sigh of relief. "The pleasure was all mine."

"Why don't we go for a tour of the gardens?" I suggested. "We could hire a guide and learn more about the history of the place. My treat, this time."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of imposing," he said, quickly enough that I knew he was dreaming quite vividly of it.

"How about tomorrow morning, then?" I suggested. "They say the fountains catch the light most beautifully just after sunrise. Should we meet by the gates?"

Balfour nodded, his expression pained as though it went against his better judgment. "Tomorrow morning would be lovely," he answered at length.

As he walked away, I wondered if I'd done the right thing. The poor man seemed deeply unhappy, and I hoped I'd judged correctly that he wouldn't do anything reckless. For a moment, I had my mind set on following him back to his hotel, but then I considered what reckless things my brother might be involving himself in during my absence and changed my mind.

When I came back to the inn, John was staring out the window twirling one of his knives. His hair was still mussed in the back from sleeping, the braids sticking out at odd angles, and the blue streaks at his temples had faded to a dull grey. I doubted he'd had anything to eat all day, and unless I was mistaken, he smelled a bit.

And he was still a hundred times more gorgeous than I could ever dream of being.

"You know, it might do you some good to talk with Balfour," I told him. I wasn't sure where the idea came from, but I did think it was a good one, psychologically speaking. They would both benefit from seeing each other, realizing they're not alone. It might bring back some good memories of how things used to be.

As long as John left the knives, of course.

My brother snorted, leaned out the window, and spat. A woman squealed from the street down below, and John laughed.

_Bastion_, we were going to have to find another hotel.

**Rook:**

Hilary came back looking all nice and refreshed from his dinner date with girl-parts Balfour. It was probably one of them places with the napkins folded into birds on your plate and coffee cups the size of thimbles. I fucking hated cindy places like that.

"You know, it might do you some good to talk with Balfour," he told me, like dressing up and eating overpriced food reminded him he was supposed to be better than I was.

Which was total shit, and we both knew it. Who was the one with the fucking statue, him or me? Thinking about it got me real pissed, though not at Hilary. Even if he couldn't aim a dart to save his life, he was top-notch as far as brothers went, I knew that much, and I couldn't see any point being angry with _him_.

It was the rest of the world I wanted to kick in the teeth.

I couldn't though, so I spat out the window on some woman walking past instead. I wished it had been Balfour, who had no right stealing other people's brothers just because his had got himself killed.

Hilary sighed and slumped down onto his bed, the same bed that whore had stumbled into last night, holding his face in his hands like I made him tired. I didn't know what his problem was, and I felt right then like I _should've_ been angry with him. He was the one acting like a thick-skulled son-of-a, not me. I was the same as I always was. It wasn't anger I felt, though, looking at my brother being all miserable and professor-y.

Actually, I kind of felt like shit.

It took me a minute to get my thoughts in order because he _was_ my brother, but I've never had much of a conscience, and what was the point of growing one now? I'd been mulling things over all day, and I knew what I wanted, and that was enough for me.

"I'm taking a bath," I told him, and grabbed a towel, real annoyed with myself now that I'd got us kicked out of all the hotels with baths inside the rooms.

When I got back, Hilary was still sitting on the bed, though he'd taken off his shoes. He had a hole in the toe of his left sock. I was barefooted, my shirt hanging out of my pants and unbuttoned so my scars showed through, pink and angry looking, across my chest.

Hilary gave the exposed skin a thoughtful look.

"You could've joined in, you know," I told him, toweling off my braids.

His face went all blank at that one.

"Last night, I mean," I corrected, trying hard not to smile. "Girls like that don't care which way you do 'em as long as they get their pay."

He stared at me like I had lizards crawling out of my mouth.

I rolled my eyes and threw the towel at his face. "The boys in the corps used to do it sometimes, it ain't nothing. Well, unless Compagnon got himself involved. Fucking whoreson could never wait his turn, and there was this one time when he--"

"Honestly, John, I'm really not terribly interested in hearing about it. I saw a lot of that sort of thing when I was young," he told me. He hung the towel off the end of his bed to dry, like the well-bred bastard he was so good at pretending to be. "Or maybe not _exactly_ that, but… when you grow up in the back of a whorehouse, the act looses much of its appeal."

"The act? Of what, sex? _Sex_ loses its appeal?" I asked. After what I'd been through in my life, it took a lot to shock me, but Hilary was fucking genius at it. "What, are you trying to tell me you never been with a--"

"Of _course_ I have!" he cut me off, his face turning three shades of red, maybe four at the ears. "I'm no saint, nor am I attempting to act like one. And I realize the socio-economic impact that the trade has for women who might otherwise starve, or perhaps be sold into even more reprehensible conditions. It's just that I feel, personally, that such matters are best when they're carried out between two individuals of equal, consenting…"

He carried on like that a while. The way he said it, it was like there was something special about whoring yourself out, or paying for someone who did, or not paying for someone who didn't. Like there was some big lesson you could learn from studying shit like that.

I think he didn't appreciate my yawn. "Hilary, are you gonna write a fucking roman about it? Or are you gonna live your life instead of watching it walk past like one of them rich ladies in fancy hats?"

He sighed. "Your figures of speech never cease to astound me."

"_Fuck_ figures of speech," I said, with feeling. "What's a bit of whore sharing between brothers? Don't you want to get to know each other better? _Bond_, or whatever you 'Versity boys call it? If not, then why the _fuck_ are we here?"

He made a noise that meant he was going to protest, so I offered, "Or if you're so against paying for it, we could leave the whores out of it. The boys did that sometimes, too."

Took a minute for _that_ to sink in, but when it did, I could tell Hilary knew exactly what I meant. In fact, it was real obvious, considering his mouth was hanging open like he'd just been dropped on the head. Of course what I'd said was a lie, and a huge one at that, but I had the plan real solid-like in my head now so as I knew just how to play him.

So I sat down all calm beside him on his bed, pretending this cindy talk came real easy to me, and I wasn't pulling it out of my ass as I went. "In the corps, there's two kinds of men: pillow-biters like Balfour, and regular guys who like it bent over a table every so often," I told him. "And a difference as wide as the Cobalts between the two."

He shook his head, blinking more than seemed really necessary. "I don't believe you."

I snorted. Maybe he said he didn't, but I knew him well enough to know better. I was his _brother_, and why would I lie about something like that? This was gonna be easier than I'd thought. "You lived with us for what? A few months? You don't know shit about what we did."

His brain was working real hard at figuring out how to take that. I could almost see the gears moving, bright and shining like Have's had been when she was cleaned up good and not a pile of scrap in some warehouse. He was about to be let in on some massive secret he could write up in about a million essays, and he just itching to know more but not sure he'd really be allowed to ask. Maybe I'd change my mind about this whole brother thing and pop him a good one in the chin for daring to believe I was bent as a butcher's hook.

But I knew he'd ask. "Who?"

"What, for me? Merritt," I said with a snort, the name rolling off my tongue just like that. "Usually. Thought _that_ was obvious."

Now, Merritt was an annoying fuck to be sure, but as far as I knew, the only actual cindy thing about him was me calling him one. But he was dead, so he sure as bastion wasn't gonna give me crap about it. And I'd've beat the piss out of him if he was alive and called me a liar anyway, so I figure this was the less painful way all around.

"Merritt?" Hilary said, like he was putting all his fancy book-learning into figuring it out. Like the name was one of them mind-game exams they give you at the 'Versity to tell if you're smarter than a monkey yet.

"You got a problem with that?" I asked.

"No!" he exclaimed, looking just the right amount of frightened when he caught the look on my face.

"Good," I said, and ran my knuckles across his jaw.

Color rose in his cheeks, and he froze like a scared mouse. When my thumb slid across his lip, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes sort of glazed over like he'd had too much about an hour ago but had kept on drinking anyway. I took it as a sign to keep going when he didn't leap off the bed or try and shove me away.

Like he _could've_ shoved me away; he was just as cranked for it as I was, that was obvious as soon as I started unbuttoning his shirt. He leaned into my touch, blush creeping down his chest like me undressing him was the most damn perfect thing ever. If he was a cat, he'd've been fucking _purring_, he was that into it.

And it wasn't just him. There was something there when our skin touched, some spark, couldn't neither of us deny that.

"John," Hilary whispered, and the sound of it gripped my insides, warm and soft and twining. "I don't--"

"No," I told him as I slid his shirt off his shoulders, "I think you do."

He made a strange sound in his throat, but he didn't argue when I ran my tongue up his neck. He didn't taste like some whore, all tarted up and powdered like a cherry beignet. How he tasted was better, raw and salty like the tang of metal in your mouth when you'd been out riding all night and your lips were coated in ash.

I'd never so much as thought of touching a man before unless I was real hungry and he was jingling the coin in front of my face, and all that was a long fucking time ago. But I wasn't stupid, and I knew when I was doing something right. Hilary knew it too. He let me do what I wanted, which was mostly getting a feel for the angles of his chest and sucking on his earlobe.

It had me muddled for a minute, him not having breasts, but I forgot about it pretty quick when he pulled my shirt off and then reached for the buttons on my pants. _That_ sure as hell wasn't what I'd been expecting, him making a move, and I had to go extra quick to make sure I wasn't the only one with his clothes off.

I was just acclimating myself to the feel of him under me, his pale skin warm and smooth like a woman's, when someone knocked on the door.

Hilary made a sound in the back of his throat, but if he thought I was stopping, he was bat-shit crazy. He wasn't crazy, though, he was my _brother_, and he made a noise I liked when I licked at that sweet spot at the base of his neck. I made a noise he must've liked too because his hand was up in my hair, fisted around my braids.

My hand wrapped around something else.

After a minute, we both forgot about the door.

But I must not've locked it when I came back from my bath because then the damn thing was _opening_.

Standing in the doorway was fucking _Balfour_, with his fucking gloves halfway off his crazy metal hands, and he was gaping like he just walked in on Mary Margrave on his knees in front of th'Esar himself. Or maybe the Ke-Han Emperor-- fucked if _I_ knew what those sons-of-a did in their spare time.

I shot the whoreson a look like if he didn't get his ass out of here and _now_, he was going to have my boot up it real quick. Hilary's nails drew across my shoulders, his head thrown back against the pillow, and I knew he hadn't seen. Our legs were hiding the more interesting aspects, so I ran my tongue up his throat real nice and clear so Balfour could tell just what he was interrupting, and the fuck-up's eyes widened.

And then he dropped his glove.

If he'd still had his hands, it wouldn't've been a problem. But the glove was flat on the ground, genuine kidskin softened in nobleladies' piss or something, and when he tried to scoop it up with his fucking metal fingers, they wouldn't bend right.

_Leave the fucking glove!_ I wanted to shout at him. I didn't though because my brother's thigh was sliding up between mine, and I wasn't about to have him stop. Nothing I was going to say was going to come out too clear at this point, anyway.

Balfour's fingertips scratched against the ground, and I could smell the panic on him. It made me think of those last days in the corps when we were flying the girls on nothing but guts and arm strength. It smelled the same way. And just like that, I could see the Lapis dome below me, hear the screams in the air, and smell the burning gasoline and human flesh.

Sniveling little Cindy in the doorway had tears in his eyes like he'd seen it just now too, the dome and Jeannot with Al Atan in a tailspin howling fire, about to smash themselves to smithereens against it. I was off the bed before I realized, angry as bastion, snatching Balfour's fucking glove off the fucking ground. He stared blankly at the thing when I held it out to him.

Or maybe he was staring at something else because I was still ready to go, busted dragons or no, and it was real obvious considering I was bare-ass naked.

"You taking this, or do you want me to stuff it down your fucking _throat_?" I demanded. Hilary was making these odd kind of squawks like a chicken laying eggs and having a hard time of it, so there was no point in not telling it the way it was.

"Oh," Balfour said. He didn't take the glove.

As much fun as it might've been to make good on my offer, the blubbering pillow-biter'd probably have got the wrong idea if I went stuffing things in his bodily orifices while I wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. So instead, I tucked it inside his collar, though I wasn't too gentle about it. Tonight was about me and my brother, not this Nellie and his cindy fantasies.

When I finally managed to get Balfour out the door, and _lock_ it this time, Hilary was working at getting his pants buttoned. Which was gonna be tough considering he'd put them on backwards.

"So," I said, hooking a finger in his belt loop.

He just about jumped out of his skin, and dropped his pants, which I pulled to his knees. He looked at me like I was about to make a meal of him. His whole body was trembling like mad, but it didn't take much to see he was still up for it, in the literal sense.

I maybe showed a few too many teeth when I grinned at him. "Where were we, Hilary?"

**Thom:**

I knew I should've felt much more horrified with myself for what happened last night. Or, more correctly, I should have felt horrified _period_.

But I didn't.

In fact, I felt encompassed in a warm, tingly sort of feeling that was more than just waking up with John lying on my arm. He was so beautiful with his braids splayed out on the pillow and sun rising golden across his skin. I drew my fingers down the scarred reminder of the wound that had nearly killed him and felt such love for my brother, it swelled like a fount in my chest.

Lying beside him, I was at peace.

Except, of course, that I'd promised Balfour I'd meet him this morning to tour the gardens, and I was fairly well horrified about _that_. He didn't know we were related, so the situation wasn't as dire as it could've been, but I was still humiliated he'd witnessed such a display. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't come. Actually, I wouldn't blame him if he never wanted to set eyes on me for the rest of his life.

I didn't even dare look at myself in the mirror.

But I'd said I'd be there, and I was going to keep my word. The man needed companionship and a willing soul to lend an ear, there was no question of that. He'd come all the way to Eklesias for it. When I arrived at the gates just after eight, though, I was sure I'd be touring the gardens alone.

Shockingly, Balfour was waiting for me.

He had on his gloves and a smart looking jacket to ward off the early morning chill. A magnolia tree was blooming behind him, blossoms soft and rosy in the morning light. When he spotted me, he smiled.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show," he said.

My face went immediately red. "I-- Balfour, I am so _terribly_--"

He smiled and shook his head. "Please, think nothing of it. I'm the one who should apologize; I was in the wrong. Superbly bad form to walk into someone's room without being invited."

"Still," I insisted, my face no less red.

"Nonsense. Do you think I've spent the better part of a decade in the Airman without walking in on that sort of thing before?" he asked. "Why do you think they put in the private common room? Now what do you say to grabbing a quick breakfast before we go in? There's a place that makes the most lovely beignets just up the way. Also, I know a few of the more famous sights in town, and you simply must see them before leaving."

I was relieved beyond words at his lack of concern, happy to let him chatter as we made our way toward breakfast. I couldn't help but wonder about it, though. Had he truly seen a pair of Dragon Corps men together, or even participated in something of the like himself? Or was he referring simply to the girls the airmen brought home? Though my brother had no reason to lie to me, I was still having a hard time believing John about Merritt; never once had I seen him show an interest in freckled women.

I didn't ask Balfour, though. How could I have?

Breakfast turned out to be so not much beignets as miniature pies filled with eggs or spiced fruit that must have been traditional fare in this part of the country. They were quite good and easy to eat as we walked, even for Balfour, after he'd taken his gloves off. It was only the intricate things he seemed to have trouble grasping.

Eklesias was an old city, slow to change and thus full of living history. Balfour pointed out this sight or that as we cut through town, seeming much cheered since yesterday. Doubtless he would have felt differently if he'd known John and I were of the same blood, yet still I felt no remorse for what I-- _we_-- had done. There was a strange rightness to it.

"This way, just one more thing," he told me, pointing down a narrow, curving street. "It's the spot where Aristogeiton made his rather ironic stand against the assassins-- or at least, so they say. One wonders if they don't spread these famous places out to get tourists to travel more broadly and spend money along the way. In any case, here it is, and as you can see…"

I examined the location in question, which bore a commemorative plaque but was otherwise unremarkable. I'd never studied this area of Volstov particularly, and the event was unfamiliar to me, though not to Balfour. He stood beside me looking pleased with himself, after a moment placing his hand on my shoulder. I'd expected the metal to be cold, but it felt warm and nearly human through the fabric of my shirt, alive in its own way.

I felt a sharp pang of emotion as I realized it reminded me of Havemercy.

"Amazing," I told him.

Then he kissed me.

It was a soft, tender kiss, full of warmth and slow, cautious emotion. His fingertips ghosted across my cheek, and he seemed willing to give anything, all of himself, just to please me; it was everything sweet and kind that kissing John hadn't been. When he pulled back his face was flushed, his eyes wide and lips parted.

"Oh," he breathed. "So sorry."

I had no idea what to say to that.

Before I could put my thoughts in order, he'd strode back into the street. His boots clacked sharply against the flagstones, his slender back retreating into the distance. He held out his gloves as though to put them on, and then tossed them aside; they fluttered to the ground like fallen petals. By the time I realized he was walking away and I was staring and doing nothing to stop him, he was disappearing around the corner.

"Balfour," I called, "wait!"

I ran out after him, scooping up the gloves, and followed his steps to where the street merged into another, then another, and another. He was quicker than I was, or had taken a different path, and though it seemed the streets went on forever, I did not; exhausted, I leaned down over my knees, breath coming in pants, and gave up. His gloves were still warm in my hand, but Balfour was nowhere to be found.

It was only then that I realized I hadn't kissed him back.

**Rook:**

The next morning, Hilary was nowhere to be found.

I got dressed and took a shower, and even went across the way for some breakfast, but I was starting to think I'd screwed th'Esarina's pooch on this one. People've always told me acting on my impulses was gonna get my ass in a bind one day, and I'd always figured they were full of shit. It seemed like things had slid into place real nice for me and my brother both last night, but then maybe _I_ was full of shit. All his things were still in the room, though, even the 'Versity notebooks he'd brought for bastion-only-knew what and sometimes scribbled into, and I couldn't see as how he'd leave those.

I'd smashed the alarm clock to bits already-- threw it against the wall and then crushed the insides to chunks of shiny scrap under my heel-- so I didn't know what time it was when he finally came in. His face was flushed, and he'd undone the top button on his shirt.

"Where the hell you been?" I demanded. Because he _never_ undid the top button.

Didn't seem like he noticed how sharp I was with him, and he sat down on his bed. "I've done something awful," he said.

"Forced the fucking pillow down your throat, did I?" I snapped. "That the story now?"

Hilary sighed and scrunched his brow up like his head hurt. "I'm not talking about last night. While I'll admit that it was… undoubtedly not, morally speaking, entirely proper, I…"

And then I saw what he was holding: soft looking white gloves with fancy stitching around the top, one of which had definitely graced our floor last night. I sure didn't know what to make of _that_, so I snatched the damn things out of his hands and threw 'em out the window.

"I wish you hadn't done that," he told me.

The look on his face-- like a shitcanned pair of gloves was the saddest fucking thing in the world-- made me wish I hadn't too, but that wasn't hardly the point. "You go to apologize to your boyfriend?" I asked. "That where you were? Must've been some real rough work comforting him, seeing as you been gone all morning."

"Do you understand how ironic it is for you to talk about him like that considering what he walked in on last night?" Hilary asked.

"Shit," I said, "you know I ain't some fucking Cindy. It's _different_, I told you that."

That earned me another sigh, and didn't _that_ annoy the piss outta me. "I'm sorry, John, I forgot to tell you last night," he said. "And when I woke up, you were sleeping, and… Balfour and I made plans to tour the gardens together this morning. After we met, I said something-- or rather, didn't say something-- that upset him, and… he left. I looked everywhere for him, but he's checked out of his hotel with no address to forward correspondence, and--"

"Did I say I gave a fuck?" I demanded. "'Cause you're going on about it like I did."

"You're being completely unreasonable," he told me. "I'm really quite _worried_ about him." His face was all screwed up funny, and for a couple real messed-up seconds, it looked like he was about to cry. I thought I was maybe gonna have to hit the kid to knock some sense into him. Being out of Molly so long though, living around all them sons-of-a who always wanted a body to "calm down" or "talk it out," he might take it wrong, so I wasn't so much looking forward to it.

"Quit your cindy fussing over Balfour," I told him, clenching my hands into fists at my sides. "After all the shit we pulled on him when he was a new recruit, I guarantee there ain't a whole lot _you_ could do to get under his skin."

He stared at his knees like they held the secrets of the universe, or Balfour's soul or something. He had on these brown pants, and he picked at the fabric like they lint on 'em, but they didn't. Then he reached out to me. Didn't even look up, just held out his hands, just like that, like he knew I'd take 'em.

I couldn't see my way toward nothing but doing it.

Maybe his fingers didn't have the calluses mine did, but his hands weren't weak and smooth like a woman's, and they didn't touch me like a woman's did. They ran over my wrists and up my arms and across my shoulders, nails blunt against my neck as he pulled me in. His breath against my throat set me into some real nice shivers as those fingers unbuttoned my shirt. Fucking strong hands he had, my brother.

"I'm worried about you too, John," he murmured against my skin.

I could've said a whole fucking lot to that. Like how I could take care of _myself_, and anyone who said otherwise could fuck himself. Or how some part of me that'd been empty was filled up again with him just being here, and I didn't give two shits that I'd gone cindy over it, and taken him with me.

But I didn't say anything.

I just laid him back on the bed real slow and showed him there was nothing left to be worried about.

END


End file.
